Back and Forth and In Between
by landsliding
Summary: She's a sophomore in college when she starts to speak of their senior year. "Italy," she'd say with wide eyes. "It'll be perfect." He doesn't do anything but support her idea because, well, isn't that what he's always done?


**BACK AND FORTH AND IN BETWEEN**

...

Rachel Berry likes to plan in advance. If there's one person who knows that best, it's gotta be Finn Hudson. She's Rachel Berry: planner extraordinaire (and extraordinaire of practically everything else she tries too; the girl's a goddess or something, Finn thinks).

She's a sophomore in college when she starts to speak of their senior year. "Italy," she'd say with wide eyes. "It'll be perfect."

He doesn't do anything but support her because, well, isn't that what he's _always _done?

So she plans the perfect spring break, all the way down to the color she hopes the Vespa they rent down in Rome'll be.

She books the hotel rooms and the flight and even offers to pack his suitcase two weeks in advance so he won't have to worry about missing anything the morning of.

It all works out for the most part. Rachel's flight gets in at seven thirty in the evening and the first thing she does is take a cab down to his house. He's already started pacing back and forth because it turns out it was hardly possible for Rachel to fly in two weeks early to give him a hand. Glancing over to his suitcase, empty except for a bottle of shaving cream, he gives off a shrug and tells himself a few hours isn't _that _horrible.

Kurt lets her upstairs after a round of hugs, kisses, squeals and the constant "are you _sure_ you didn't do something different with your hair?"

It's been months since he's seen her, and he won't even count the stupid pixelated version of her he saw three weeks ago via a crappy webcam she mailed him back during their freshman year.

"Finn?" She doesn't even bother knocking, she sort of just enters his room like it's hers or something. He just drops the stack of t-shirts he's holding and turns his body, facing the doorway. If anyone else had just let themselves in his room without even a knock, he probably would flip a shit and throw one of his footballs at the door until they left. He doesn't even have those thoughts when she does it though because, well, she's _Rachel_.

"Yeah," he clears his throat, "come on in."

She walks in slowly, tiptoeing over the sneakers and the lids of boxes and the hundreds of pairs of socks and underwear scattered all over. "What color is your floor again? You might have to remind me." She walks over to him now, giggling as she flicks him on the arm.

She's looking back down to the floor now, snickering as she accidentally steps on a pair of his underwear. He wants to tell her there's a door right in front of her if she's not cool with the way he keeps his room. He wants to tell her she shouldn't have an opinion in the first place because that's what he's got a mother for, and she _definitely_ isn't it. But he's weak and still pathetically and not-so-pathetically in love with the girl, so all he can do is reach out his arms and envelope her in the most awkward, most unplanned hug ever, whisper a small "I missed you" and flash red as she lets out a small huff.

"Yeah, well, for the next week you won't have to," she breathes. Turning him, she bites down on her lip. "Excited for Rome?"

He does a small shrug, then, "Not so much."

"The hotel'll be beautiful," she says, enthusiasm painting her tone. "It's got about six indoor pools. _Six_. That's a pool for every person in our party."

"I still don't get why you're rooming with Blaine." He doesn't mean for it to come out, but it does anyway.

"You'll be two rooms down," she says. "If you're bummed out about sharing with Kurt, I'll gladly switch."

"You'd room with me?" Maybe he's being too hopeful, but whatever. Three weeks ago his name was beside her name when she booked the rooms. Now everything's shifted and really, he just _hates _change.

"Well," she laughs, "no. I'd change rooms with you so I'd be staying with Kurt instead of you. You seemed pretty annoyed about that and I get it, I do. He's your step-brother; a little break wouldn't hurt."

"Yeah, well, I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" She says, grabbing onto his wrist like she actually gives two shits about him. He knows she definitely doesn't, so he pulls back, gives off a small nod and turns to face the empty suitcase.

"I - I better pack," is his excuse to not have to look in her direction.

"Let me help you!" She practically squeals, sneaking up from behind him as she reaches her arms out, grabbing the stack of thrown shorts that lay across his unmade bed.

All he can do is narrow his eyes, clear his throat and turn to face her. She's humming as she begins to fold most of his shorts, tossing them over on his armchair.

"Those are for later," she practically sings the words.

"Why'd you do it?"

She looks like she's got no idea what he's talking about (it's the acting skills she's picked up after almost four years of theatre classes, he knows) and then continues running her hands through all of the pairs of shorts - _his _shorts. She's picking them up like she's his wife and she's doing his laundry for him and all he's doing is watching. It makes him feel like an asshole. Maybe because it's something that'll never be; maybe because it's something the both of them'll never really _want_ to be.

"Why'd you break up with me?" He hisses his words now, plopping himself down in the armchair, on top of the millions of pairs of scattered clothing. "Look, before you use the whole 'long distance' excuse, we've been going at this thing for almost four years and we haven't had any problems."

She spits out a sarcastic laugh, throwing a pair of his jeans she's holding in her hands down on the bed roughly. "We haven't had any problems, huh? Are we in the same relationship or...?"

"Actually," he breathes, "we're not in a relationship at all. Period. And who's fault is that, huh? 'Cuz it sure as hell isn't mine."

"You know what?" She says, making her way to the doorway as she dramatically (again, he blames it on those theatre classes) clutches the doorknob like she's threatening him she'll leave or something. "I'm not doing anything for you anymore," she hisses. "And tomorrow morning? Don't talk to me."

"Rachel, really?"

"Really," she says it like she actually means something this time. All of the other times - the other fights and little random phases of anger - sounded like nothing in comparison to this one word. "Get some sleep, Finn," she tells him. "It'll be an early morning."

"Yeah," he says, fiddling with the zipper on his suitcase as an excuse to not have to look at her. "I'll see you then."

She nods, then with a whisper says, "Don't talk to me, alright? Just... don't." She says it like she doesn't want to have to but is being forced or something.

That's the part that scares him the most.

And maybe the fact that his spring break is an actual _break._ It's a break from Rachel, the one thing he was actually looking forward to seeing, even if it'd only be for a week. It's the one thing he looked forward to more than that stupid leaning tower and those stupid museums and those stupid Vespas he'd probably suck at driving around anyway.

So a literal spring break? He won't even bother timing how long he'll make it.

...

They're packed in the car after two and a half hours of running around.

First Rachel loses her keys. "You don't need keys anyway, moron," Kurt says, full attitude in display as he opens the medicine cabinet. "Now would you do us all a favor and quit the whining? I love you just as much as everyone else here, but your worrying is starting to give me a secondhand headache."

_Yeah, maybe not as much as everyone_, Finn can only think to himself, spread awkwardly across the armchair in their living room. Rachel's eyes meet his for about a half-second and he takes notice to it, fiddling with his fingers as they sit uncomfortably folded in his lap.

Puck's got the truck they need; the truck with the trunk with all of that extra room, perfect for seven suitcases for six people. (Rachel's big on being prepared; she packs two).

But Puck and Santana arrive forty minutes after they're supposed to. When Puck walks into Finn and Kurt's house, shirt on backwards, Finn hears Rachel nudge Kurt and call him an "animal with no desire to appear humane".

Finn only laughs because he's the first one to see Santana, not far behind Puck, her hair practically in tangles as she bounces through the door, suitcase in-hand.

Rachel, scattering around the living room now, nudges Finn on the arm as she manages to zip and unzip her suitcases each four times, pressing down every single thing in the both of them to save room. "Hey," she whispers. "Come with me for a second."

He doesn't really _feel_ like going with her, but again, it's _Rachel _and she's practically dragging him into the kitchen of his house, her fingers curved around his wrist as she gives a little tug, so he can't refuse or anything. That'd just be stupid.

"What is it?" He looks left and right once she shuts the door, leans up against the counter and cocks one brow.

"Well," she says with a small sigh, "I had to get away from it all."

"Sorry to break it to you, but you're the farthest from 'getting away from it all'," he says, almost mocking her. "You're stuck with us for the next week, y'know."

"Oh, I know," she says. "And actually, I'm not so sure I mind being stuck with you. We haven't been able to see each other in months."

"That's not true," he says. "I saw you three weeks ago. Do the words 'webcam', 'breakup' and 'ex-boyfriend' ring a bell or...?"

"_Finn_," she hisses, "_please_. I had to do it, alright?"

"Why the hell -"

"Because," she says, arms folded beneath her chest, "I kissed someone."

Cocking a brow, he shakes his head. "What's the asshole's name, huh? I'll pound his head in, you know I will. I'll - I'll have Puck help. He's pretty good at all of that fighting stuff. I mean, look what he did to that guy that ripped San off of three-hundred bucks at pool last summer."

Shaking her head, she walks closer to him now, grabbing his forearm with her right hand gently. "No, Finn," she breathes, "I don't think you understand. _I_ kissed someone. That someone? They didn't kiss me first."

He shakes his head and only lets out a small 'no'.

"I'm so sorry, Finn," she apologizes, even though he'll do anything but look over to her. "But let's face it. This thing we had going on, it's been over for months now."

He's tempted to reach in his pocket for his phone and pull out each and every saved text message. He's tempted to race upstairs and pull out that old shoebox he's kept since their senior year of high school, every single letter she's written him and every single picture she's given him inside. He's tempted to race into the living room, drag Puck's ass into the kitchen and make him tell Rachel about a time they've gone to the mall where Finn _hadn't_ pointed out an outfit he knew Rachel would probably have in her wardrobe. (Maybe he'd even make Puck tell her about the time he bought a pair of knee-highs with that hideous argyle pattern he could only love when it was on Rachel just for the hell of it).

But apparently, he doesn't know how to speak his mind anymore, so he just shrugs, takes two steps away from her and lets out a soft, "Yeah. Maybe you're right."

She nods like this is all okay; like she isn't affected by any of this nonsense. He only shrugs a little bit, exiting the kitchen and leaving her behind, even though he's so tempted to yell at her and scream at her because kissing someone's never meant you were supposed to fall in love with them, right?

If that's true, he'd be in love with the majority of girls he's kissed at dorm parties over at OSU. He'd be in love with Leah and with Lucy and with Mia and maybe with Veronica and - _shit_. Rachel's right; she's _so _right and all he can do is walk into the living room like the fuck up he is, head down to the floor as he hears the sound of Rachel's footsteps behind him.

This relationship has been over for months and months and he's the true coward in all of this because if she hadn't finally came out and proven that to him by ending it all together, he would've just let it drag on and on like some pretentious douchebag.

Wonderful, really.

...

They're in the airport waiting for what feels like forever. Two o'clock doesn't come fast enough, so Finn rises up from the chair he's sitting in, tells them all he's going down to Dunkin' Donuts for a muffin and offers to bring back something for everyone.

"Plain bagel for me," Santana says, ripping her eyes away from the paper she's reading for almost a millisecond. "With butter," she hisses, looking up again. "And make sure it's toasted. But not too dark. And not too light, either. I don't wanna feel like I'm eatin' a piece of cotton candy, alright?"

"Just the usual for me," Puck says, not taking his eyes off of the iPad he's been using consistently since the car ride over. "Two Boston Cremes and one of those coffee roll thingamajigs. Plane rides make me hungry."

Finn holds up a thumb, but Kurt kisses, peers his head out from behind his newspaper and shakes his head. "With all you'll be carrying back after placing the order from hell - A.K.A. the food belonging to those _barbarians_ - I can't ask you to order anything for Blaine and I," he says, looking over to an unamused Puck and Santana with a small smirk. "But if there happens to be room, we'd each like a strawberry donut. With sprinkles. Well, mine'll have to have sprinkles. I don't think Blaine likes sprinkles though. Blaine? Do you like sprinkles? Last time we ate donuts you picked all the sprinkles off, so I'm pretty sure you don't like sprinkles."

Rachel, shaking her hand, stands up from her seat, slamming her bag down on the chair underneath her. "I'll go with you," she says, looking at Finn for the first time since that morning in the kitchen. It's awkward, sure, but she's smiling at him and starts to walk toward him, so he lets his hand brush her arm and just nods. "We'll be back," she says, looking over her shoulder to the four of them, who are _clearly _ indifferent to what she's saying.

He just ducks his head and silently thinks to himself how great it sounds when she refers to them as a 'we'll' and not just an 'I'll' or a 'Finn and I'll'. Sure, he's an idiot for overanalyzing everything, but it's all he's got left of whatever they were, so he'll take every moment, even if it's little and even if it's kinda stupid. Even something as stupid as a little 'we'll'. It makes him feel like he's part of something again. Their something.

...

They're finally up and going. The Italy part? Yeah, sure he's excited, but he's pretty bummed out too because not three weeks ago, his hotel room was _definitely_ not listed under 'Finn Hudson and Kurt Hummel'. All he can do is sigh, grip the handle of his carry-on a little tighter and walk up the terminal, avoiding her eyes like a professional.

Kurt demands he sit next to Blaine. "Who else's iPod will I listen to? Tell me any one of you has the entire Wicked soundtrack in a selective playlist and I'll gladly sit with you, but as of now, Blaine's my go-to guy for this, so..."

Rachel, trudging down the terminal and onto the plane, her heavy carry-on boosted over her right shoulder, lets out a little pant. "I've got it," she says, almost breathless. "I have practically every song done on Broadway ever. From Evita to West Side Story, I've got it."

"Yeah, well," Kurt lets out a sigh, throwing a little smirk back in Finn's direction for whatever reason, "I'm already sitting next to Blaine. Sorry."

"And I'm sitting with San," Puck calls out from in front of the rest of them, mouth full as he bites into his coffee roll. "Guess that leaves you with Hudson."

"Guess so," Rachel says it like it's the worst thing in the world. Finn can only duck his head to the ground, tug on his suitcase a little harder and hope no one makes a comment on his flushed face.

Those words? They hurt a little bit. And he's no sensitive teddy bear or anything stupid like that, but it hurts because she's supposed to be _his_ Rachel - _his _girlfriend - and she's acting like she's all but.

She's just Rachel and he's just Finn and he _really_ freakin' hates it when it's that way.

...

It's fourteen minutes into the plane ride before she falls asleep on his shoulder.

"You set me up asshole," Finn hisses to Puck, who's sitting in the aisle across from him and Rachel, a smirk as clear as day painted across his face.

"No need to thank us," Santana chimes in. "Just thank me for providing your girl with the Dramamine. Shit makes you drowsy within _minutes_," she does a little laugh, snapping her fingers together for an effect.

Puck pulls his phone from out of his pocket, curses when he enters the passcode in wrong and nudges Santana when he finally gets it right. "I'm gettin' a picture of this shit," he laughs. "S'too good of an opportunity."

Before Finn can stop him, Puck's already tapping Kurt on the back of the head, hissing for him and Blaine to turn around.

"Think of it as a big 'told you so'," Santana says. "We'll come put it under the pillow in your hotel room once you two finish with that much needed makeup sex or whatever you do."

Finn only shakes his head, then turns to Rachel. She's so quiet and so at ease he forgets she's even next to him for a moment.

"Hey," he whispers once he knows the rest of them are once again wrapped up in their own conversations. "You look kind of cute."

She lifts her head up off of him lazily, drapes her arm across his knees and looks up to him with a tired smile, her eyes still practically closed. "Are we there yet?"

"Not even close," he whispers. "Just... just sleep, alright?" He scoots over even closer to her, lets her get comfortable and place her head down on his shoulder once more, and tells her he'll wake her up before they land.

When they land, it's Santana who's waking _him_ up. With a shake to his shoulders, he lifts his head up from off of the cushion of the seat behind him, looks down into his lap and feels his eyes widen at the fact Rachel's head is right in the middle.

"She's been asleep on you like that for hours," Santana says. Turning back to Puck, she lets out a laugh, then turns back to the two of them. "We've got proof."

"No need," he says, waving his hand. "Let her sleep, alright? We won't be allowed off for another like, thirty minutes anyway."

...

They get there and it's beautiful even inside of the airport because, well, it's _Italy_. But he's hardly paying attention to that because Kurt loses his wallet and his carry-on and Blaine's running to find the nearest bathroom. Puck's complaining about there being no pretzel stands in sight and Santana's flirting with some Italian guy holding maps.

Finn turns to Rachel, the only somewhat-sane one of all of them, lets out a sigh and places his hand to her shoulder. "You alright?"

Taking a deep breath in, she nods her head. "Just hungry. _Really_ hungry."

"So come on," he says, hand to the small of her back as he steps in back of her. "There's gotta be a few restaurants in here, right?"

They settle on what's gotta be the nicest McDonald's ever (and the only restaurant they don't have to trudge through a crowd of scattering people for).

Rachel, with a pout, sits down at a stool. He holds the back of her chair with one hand, takes a breath and tells her he'll order. "W'do'u want?" He asks, looking over the crowds of people on the line toward the menu board.

Sighing, she rises from her chair. "They've got nothing Vegan here," she says. "So I guess I'll have a water."

"I'll tell you what," he says, fiddling with the loose change in the pocket of his jeans, "I'll order us two ice cream sundaes with that hot fudge you like. I wouldn't want you feelin' left out or anything. I mean, I'm not gonna make you sit here while I'm chomping down on a Big Mac, y'know?"

Laughing, she ducks her head to the floor with an almost-embarrassed smile. All he can do is clear his throat and wait for her to scream out whatever it is he's done wrong this time. "You'd do that for me?"

"Yeah, well," he breathes, "you're my friend." Yeah, he'd rather not use the f-word, but whatever, what else'll he call her? They definitely don't hate one another but he _definitely _wants to make it at least to the hotel, so he'll spare calling her his girlfriend. That wouldn't blow over so well, he knows.

Walking beside him, she lifts her arm up with a small giggle, links it into his and practically pulls him until they're at the back of the line. "Ice cream sundaes it is."

No one says a word once they're waiting in line. It's busy all around him, sure, but it's so different and strange from what he's used to seeing in America. He lets out a breath, then takes a moment to soak it all in. It's just them two, a few waiters and waitresses and a room full of beautiful Italians. (They _are_ really beautiful; he finds himself strangely attracted to just about every single move they make because it all seems so unreal and so foreign).

"Hey Rach?"

She presses her lips together and turns to him, an almost-smile peering from the corner of her lips. "Hm?"

"Do you ever just like, take a minute and stop? Like, just now, I let myself think about almost nothing and just... looked." He turns his head away from her, cheeks flushed as he hears her take a sigh. He knows he's bound to receive a snicker or a sarcastic remark or _something _because he's just an idiot who shouldn't be allowed to comment on anything.

"I do," she says, much to his surprise. "Like just now, I looked around McDonald's and noticed how beautiful a stupid fast food restaurant like this can actually be."

Shutting his eyelids for a moment in relief, he nods, takes her hand in his and walks her to the front of the quickly moving line. From the corner of his eyes he watches her shift her glance to the both of their hands. She says nothing. That shocks him the most, but he's not an idiot; he won't complain.

If there's one person who gets him the most, it's Rachel Berry. Yeah, she may only kind of, sort of get him in a way that's almost not comprehendible to _him_, even, but she gets him. Their joint hands tell him that. The way she looks around the room and watches the people moving only with her eyes tell him that.

Now he's only waiting for the day he'll hear it from her herself.

(If that day ever comes).

...

They arrive to the hotel late. Almost too late to actually do anything besides sleep.

"We'll be in our room," Puck says, taking ahold of Santana's arm as the two of them make way for their elevator. "G'night."

"Yeah," Santana says with a wink that looks like it's obviously meant for Finn and Finn only, "goodnight. Don't stay up too late exploring."

Kurt chimes in, laughing, "Oh, we won't. Blaine and I were just headed to bed. I mean, it sucks he's two rooms down, but there's always a garden out back that's the _perfect_ setting for a little sneaking out, so..."

Finn, with a nudge and a cough, whispers to Kurt, "Here." Digging in his pocket, he slowly pulls out a twenty dollar bill, crumples it in his hands and gives it over to Kurt.

"You don't have to pay me to sleep in a room with my boyfriend," Kurt says with a snicker. "Getting Blaine out of Rachel's way'll be my pleasure."

"Just take it," Finn hisses. "Take it every night. Just... just make sure Blaine's always in _your_ room. Not Rachel's room."

"Finn, he's gay."

Finn's head snaps up, "He's made out with Rach before, but nice try."

"After being highly intoxicated during a round of spin the bottle, it was only inevitable," Kurt says with a hiss.

"Look, I love you for doin' this for me man, I do," Finn says, his hand to Kurt's shoulder. "They're coming over here! Just... just go. Goodnight!" He screams the last word a little louder, as if he wants the entire hotel to hear or something. It's an accident on his part, but it manages to grab both Blaine and Rachel's attention.

"You're heading to bed already?" Blaine says, walking over to Kurt.

"It's late," Kurt tells him.

"I'm hungry."

"We'll order room service," Kurt breathes quietly, the sound of the crumpled twenty dollar bill he holds in his hands peering over their voices.

Finn gives off a wink as he watches the two walk away, hand-in-hand, as Kurt mumbles a barely-visible, "Let's just both sleep in my suite tonight".

Turning over to Rachel, his hands deep in his pockets, Finn only lets out a breath. "So, looks like it's just us."

Laughing, she shakes her head. "I know you did this on purpose."

He doesn't think it's possible for his face to get any much redder, but it does. He shakes his head because he's an idiot and he's wrong - he's wrong, wrong, wrong about _everything_. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she says lowly, walking closer to him now as she lets the back of her hand brush against his dangling wrist. "I'm kind of glad you pulled this. Frankly, I wasn't looking forward to rooming with Kurt anyway. Do you _know_ how many times I've seen his Vogue collection? There's only so many pictures you can see of Marion Cotillard..."

He doesn't know what to say, really, because he's kind of too relieved to speak. "There's only one bed in there y'know," he's so dumb he spits out the wrong thing again and again. He knows by know he'll never ever learn and frankly, she's gonna have to live with that.

"I know," she says with a giggle, nuzzling her nose into his shoulder as she digs in the pocket of her denim shorts for their room key.

He thinks she doesn't mind so much then. It's a pretty kick ass feeling.

...

It takes her thirteen minutes to fall asleep that night.

It takes him a full two hours because after those thirteen minutes and beyond, he spends the time noticing what a pretty sleeper she is.

She's leaned up against him and yet she's not. Her legs are crossed over each other, her hands folded over her torso. Her hair's in a messed bun, sitting at the top of her forehead, and she's got no makeup on, her face bare and yet not so bare at the same time. It's hard to explain, really, so he just stares. It's better than even explaining it to himself at this point.

He falls asleep eventually, sure, but he's awake twenty minutes later once the phone in their (or is it just 'hers'?) hotel room starts to ring.

Sitting up, he reaches across Rachel's sleeping frame and whispers a small, "Hello?"

"I knew it!" A shouting Santana screams. He can hear Puck in the background, saying something about Blaine and Kurt and sex and room keys, but it's all a jumbled blur so he presses the phone closer to his ear and just blinks his heavy eyelids twice.

"Knew _what_?"

"I knew you were in Berry's room," she laughs. Without giving him a chance to say anything, she lets out a second laugh, almost sarcastically. "Alright, that's all. Get some sleep. Use protection."

"We're proud of you, dude!" Puck obnoxiously chants in the background. "Hey, San, how do you say 'sex' in Italian?"

He hangs up the phone right then and there because, well, he's not so sure he wants to stick around for the answer. Also, Rachel groggily shoots up, throwing the sheet off her body and looking up to him with tired eyes.

"Who was that?"

"You're awake," he says, taking his hand and running it over the top of her thigh until he catches himself. He's so used to doing that he does it unintentionally now and curses himself for it. She doesn't though, letting him rest it there as she takes her hand and joins his, running her fingertips over his.

"Finn," she breathes, "let's be boyfriend and girlfriend again."

Just like that? Clearly, she's on something or it's the Italian air or just - _no._ This isn't right; this isn't Rachel. If he remembers clearly, _Rachel's_ the reason they have to keep trying this whole boyfriend and girlfriend thing again. (At least this time).

"I just... I want you to be my boyfriend while we're here," she says, taking her fingers and letting them run up his forearm. "It's what we both wanted, no?"

"Why would you even -"

"Because," she sighs, "everyone else has got one. Look at Blaine and Kurt. Look at Puck and Santana. Even _they're_ happy."

"We could've been happy too," he says. "Incase you need a reminder, _you_ broke up with me."

She looks almost broken now, her skin pale and her eyes watery and weak as she manages to scoot a little farther from him.

"So you'd use me while we're here, huh? You'd use me while we're in Italy because you wanna make yourself look good; because you wanna be like everyone else? Well guess what, Rach, we're not like everyone else." Her eyes widen, his narrow and everything's just not the way it's supposed to be. He's supposed to be two doors down sleeping on the armchair while Kurt hogs the bed and Rachel's supposed to be in here with Blaine and, well, it's just nothing like what they planned.

She only gulps.

"Rachel, I love you, alright? You'd have to be challenged not to know that, but whatever, I'm telling you anyway. You think I don't wanna be a couple while we're here? 'Cuz I sure as hell was looking forward to seeing that stupid leaning tower with my girl. I wouldn't have even minded going to one of those lame ass art shows with you and Kurt and having you wake me up every time some cool painting was being displayed. I wouldn't have minded eating at whatever stupid Vegan place they've got here instead of eating with everyone else because I love you, alright? I love you and you should know it, even if we _never_ end up going the right way about it."

"_Finn_," she says with quivering lips.

"Save it," he says, his hands reaching out to stroke the side of her hips. "I - um - if you don't want me touching you like that, I get it. Sorry."

"No, um, no," she says with a sniffle, looking down to his hands. "It's fine."

"Cool, 'cuz I wasn't lying," he says. "I actually do love you."

"I know," she says with a gulp. "I believe you. After almost six years of... _this_... I really hope you do. Just... don't be as quick as I foolishly was to give up on us, alright?"

"Okay," he breathes, "alright."

"Promise?"

"Promise," he says, taking her hand in his now.

"So," she presses her lips together, looking up at him almost admiringly. (He knows he doesn't deserve it but whatever, he'll take it). "Does this mean...?"

"I'm not just gonna get back together with you."

Dropping her jaw, almost offended, she acts as if it's a shock or something.

"Rachel, I need time," he says. "I love you, I do, but you dumped me three weeks ago for some asshole, so..."

"So we can get past it!" She says, almost in a shouting whisper. "We've gotten past everything else."

"And how long did it take me to forgive you for cheating on me in eleventh grade?"

Ducking her head, she rolls her eyes. "Over six months."

"Exactly."

She falls asleep two minutes later, a snicker the last thing coming from her mouth.

Once ten minutes passes by, he lifts his arm up, drapes it around her torso and is shocked when she doesn't move an inch.

It's a nice feeling, really.

...

She looks at him only once during breakfast. It's only to say, "Pass the butter." Not even a please, but he passes it anyway because well, she's Rachel Berry and she's got him wrapped around her little finger.

Puck, nudging Finn as soon as Rachel's wrapped up in a conversation about some stupid painter neither of the guys've got interest in, whispers a small, "Dude."

"Huh?"

"Bad sex last night?"

Finn, shaking his head, just drops his fork down on his plate, shifts from out of his chair and gets up from the table. "I'm not even hungry," he says, not even looking behind him as he walks away.

...

He doesn't know how the hell she finds him, but he's stopped questioning her after the time she found him all the way down by the lake just thinking the summer before college even when he lied and told her he'd be walking over to Puck's. He guesses she just knows him, that's all.

"Just admit it," she says breathily, sitting down beside him. "You ran out because of me."

Nodding, he speaks softly, "And how'd you know I'd be here?"

"Because," she mutters, "I know you. You like the water."

That explains it all. Her knowing he'd be at the lake instead of Puck's house that one summer, her leaving breakfast and knowing he'd be in one of the six pools inside of the hotel that's so much like a maze it hurts his head just walking through. Somehow, she just _knows_.

"Oh," he breathes, "well... thanks."

"For?"

"Coming, I guess," he says, jutting his chin toward the bowl beside him on the table. "There's fruit," he tells her. "I ordered it for you because I know how much you like those mixed fruit bowls and stuff, so..."

"Thanks," she says with a dragged-out whisper, reaching her hand over the chair he's sitting in and reaching into the bowl, pulling out a strawberry.

When he says nothing, all she does is bite into her strawberry the way she normally does (around the stem until there's nothing left but the juice, which she later lifts to her lip and sucks off). She leans over to reach for another strawberry, lifts her fingers away from the bowl and shakes her head, and instead rests her hand on the top of his knee.

"There's - there's more in there, y'know," he says, peering his head into the fruit bowl.

"I know," she says, almost grinning. "I'm not hungry."

"Swim?" He only asks because he knows her - he knows her a little _too _much.

Her hand moves up and down his thigh, then she boosts up from out her seat and holds out her hand until he places his in it. "Well, of course," she says. "You think I'd really reject a swim in one of the most beautiful indoor pools in Italy?"

He knows that's a 'yes' in Rachel's talk, so he squeezes her hand, walks to the edge of the pool and sits down. She sits beside him, slipping off her flats and then her sundress, only to reveal a one-pieced black and gold suit.

"Wow." He doesn't mean for that to come out, but it just _does_.

"Yeah, well," she says, hands fiddling with the straps of her bathing suit, "I don't like bikinis."

"Me either," he says, shaking his head as he rises from the floor, reaching his hand out so she can get get up steadily.

"Oh, you're a man, Finn," she chuckles breathlessly, taking ahold of his hand as she lets one foot float on top of the water. "You're gonna stand here and tell me you don't appreciate a bikini?"

Shaking his head, he presses his lips together. "Not when you look like _that_ in... well... _that_."

She walks behind him now, gives him a little shove in the backside and just like that he falls into the pool. He rubs all of the chlorine out of his eyes once he's in, letting out a chuckle as he watches Rachel, only dangling her feet by the edge. Giving one tug to her ankle, he pulls her in with him and falls back when she lands almost directly on top of him.

"Nice one," she laughs, burying her head in the cove of his neck as wet strands of her hair brush against his bare skin. "You know," she says, "this is actually kind of nice."

"Who says it wouldn't be?" He says, almost laughing now as he brushes strands of wet hair out from near her face.

"I figured you hated me, so..."

"Rachel, look at me," he says, seriously now. He jolts her chin up with his fingers because she needs to understand this; she needs to understand _him_. He doesn't think he's ever capable of hating her. (He doesn't think he's ever capable of hating anyone, but _especially_ not her of all people). "You see this here?" He points to the water, the entire pool, while Rachel's still in his arms, her arms draped around his neck as he finds himself carrying her without even knowing it. She's lazily attached to his torso and it's more of a natural thing to him so he doesn't even question it, just looks up to her for a quick second with a small smile. "I wouldn't be doing all of this with you if I hated you, Rach. C'mon, you're crazy if you think I could ever hate you."

"Yeah, well," she sighs, "look at what happened to Puck and Quinn. They were together two years after high school and she cheated on him and he left. Just like that."

"They weren't too good together, though," Finn says, looking around more to the pool and its surroundings then to Rachel, who's clearly not giving up on this almost pointless argument. "He doesn't _hate_ her. And aside from that fact, we're not Puck and Quinn babe."

"I know," she says it, sure, but she doesn't say it like she _means _it.

"We're so much better than Puck and Quinn were," he says. "We'll get through more, I guarantee you." Yeah, so he's never been good with words but he's tired of being afraid to fuck up; afraid of saying the wrong thing and pissing her off because she doesn't approve. So he'll say it all anyway he's got to to get it through to her. "Just because I won't drop everything to be with you when it's convenient for you doesn't mean I'm not in love with you," he says. "'Cuz trust me, I could go on for like, a really long time listing all of the things I love about you."

"I get it now," she breathes, her hands still around his neck as she takes one of them down and makes small swirls in the water, scooting her body over to let two kids chasing each other with a blowup ball pass by. Smiling for a minute, she looks to the kids, then back to him with a small, "I _really_ get it."

"Good," he leans his head into hers, giving her a small peck on the lips without even thinking. He pulls back only when he hears the sound of two little kids, dropping their blowup ball into the water and letting out a small, "gross!" almost in unison.

It's unplanned, that kiss, but it's the most exciting thing that's happened since the day they've arrived. And he remembers that they're in Italy. _Italy_.

...

They're on this tour bus to these places he's got no real interest in and he feels his eyes shutting two minutes into the bus ride.

The only thing that keeps him awake? Santana shouting at Puck on the phone because he's still in the hotel room and there's _no_ way he'll be able to board the bus now. "You can find some Italian to fuck!" She screams (almost a little too loud for everyone's taste, especially the Italians). "So? Finn may not like it but he showed up for _his_ girlfriend! Maybe you should try doing the same. Yeah... whatever... bye."

The call ends right after that, but Rachel's hand rested on the top of his knee doesn't. Not until they're dragged out of the bus and into some stupid ancient museum he only recognizes from that history book he used as a pillow back in high school. Then her hand just grips his tightly, only letting go to grab a package of wet wipes from the fanny pack she wears around her waist. "Here," she says, handing a wipe over to Blaine, Kurt, Santana and Finn. "You _do_ know how old some of these paintings are, right?"

Blaine and Kurt take the wipe without saying a word, joining hands shortly after and making their way to the back of the museum. Santana snatches one from Rachel's hand, snickers and mumbles, "Puck would've liked those naked paintings back there." But Finn can only take one with a smile, turn to Rachel who's standing with her arms folded beside a row of paintings, and unfold the wipe, running it over her hands instead of his own.

"You'd forget about yourself if it weren't for me," he laughs.

"I know," she breathes. "I would."

...

"You know you drive me crazy sometimes," he says, sprawled across the bed in their (yes, he's got permission to call it _theirs_) hotel room.

"Yeah, but, I think you still love me," she whispers like it's some sort of confession.

"I do," he says it a little quieter than he originally plans to. Now it just sounds like he's unsure or something and he feels pretty bad because he knows he'd never be unsure of something that big; something with that much meaning.

She doesn't see it the same way, clearly, because one minute she's beside him on the bed flipping through a menu and the next the menu book's flat on the floor, her body draped over him as she begins to straddle him, running her hands up and down his chest. "Stay," she whispers once he starts fidgeting. He wasn't planning on going anywhere, but they haven't been like this in, well, forever, and it's just unfamiliar and strange and unplanned. _So _unplanned. "You have a -"

"Rachel," he whispers, "we can't."

"But we _can_," she says, practically tugging at the collar of his t-shirt. "Finn, do you love me?"

Shooting up from their bed, he gently moves her off of him, his hand running down her back as she scoots over in front of him. Letting out a small breath he tells her, "Of course."

"Then -"

"Then nothing," he chimes in. "Then we can sit here and flip through the menus like we were doing like, five minutes ago, order a bunch of food and talk. People talk too, you know."

"Sure," she nods her head. "We used to talk lots."

"And we still _will_," he says. "Rachel, I love talking to you. Hell, I love it a lot better than I like having sex with you or making out with you."

"I'm shocked."

"I'm not," he says, and she doesn't even look at him as he narrows his eyes, looking down to her. "How much do I learn about you when we're just hooking up?" She does nothing but let out a small pout, fold her arms and lean her head back into the mountain of pillows on their bed. "Nothing," he says simply. "But when we're talking? I learn everything about you. There's always somethin' new, too."

"Like what?"

"Like how for the whole entire summer when you were seven you'd sleep with your Funny Girl DVD in the player because hearing the sound of a woman singing would put you to sleep faster than anything else could. Like the way you flushed your goldfish down the toilet when you were eight and didn't open the lid in the downstairs bathroom for weeks because you were afraid it'd come back up swimming. Like the way you can drink strawberries and bananas in a smoothie but nothing else because the taste just isn't the same as strawberries and bananas. Like the -"

"Alright," she says with a teary-eyed laugh, wiping at her eye with her index finger. "I get it. You love me."

He smiles, leans to her so she can kiss him like he knows she's about to, then sits up and clears his throat. "So," he says, "the menu. Let's order everything Italian and take a bite out of each one."

"Why?"

"Why _not_?"

She simply agrees, shrugging as she picks up the phone resting on the night table.

All he can do is wonder when he became the practical one. He doesn't hate it, no, but it's just something he's not used to. It kind of freaks him out, but that makes him like it a little bit more.

...

"Greece," he says almost so easily he doesn't even have to think about it. She shakes her head and he takes his index finger, pinches her cheeks and leans down to kiss her on the mouth. "I'll take you someday. It's pretty."

"Let's be travelers," she says almost aimlessly.

Cocking a brow, he looks down to her for one minute. He then lets out a chuckle, letting his hands fly free on the top of her torso, making circles on the one sheet of bare skin just below the end of her t-shirt. "Na," he says, "I'd rather have kids."

"Me too, Finn," she whispers, taking her hands and stroking his abdomen gently as she lets out a breath. "Me too."

...

It's their last night in Italy now and he's actually kind of sad. Sure, he misses home and his bed and his mom and Burt and real food (This pasta crap? _Definitely _not doing it for him). But he'll miss Italy and _this_ bed and the view from the hotel room window and the Italian waiters only Kurt's capable of having a conversation with.

They're hand-in-hand when they get down to the restaurant. Blaine and Kurt are seated, Puck and Santana are standing, yelling over the sound of a small orchestra playing beside them, two bills in each of their hands.

Finn just shakes his head, walks over to where Kurt is and leans down, whispering, "We'll catch up with you guys later. Promised Rach I'd take her somewhere neat. Y'know, it being the last night and all."

"Sure, go," Kurt says, waving his right hand while he latches onto Blaine's arm with the left. "We'll meet up at the courtyard show tonight." Finn just nods, thanks him and pats his shoulder twice with his hand. Turning around then, he holds onto Rachel's hand, pointing for her to walk straight ahead. "Have fun!" Kurt yells once the two of them walk away.

He looks back once to Kurt with a smile, once to Blaine with a small wave and twice to Puck and Santana, only because he's lucky to have a relationship that'll probably _never_ be like that one.

It's not that it's bad, really, but he's so used to what he's got with Rachel that he'd probably never be accepting of anything else by now.

And strangely, he's alright with that.

...

The sun's already setting when they get to the place they keep the Vespas. Rachel latches onto Finn's arm even tighter once a man wheels out one for the two of them, red and big and just everything opposite of what they both expect.

"No," she says. "No, no, no."

"What's wrong?"

"I'll fall off," she says like it's her only fear ever, her voice small.

"No," he says, head shaking. "I'll hold you up."

"You'll be driving."

Chuckling, he looks down to her, leans his head forward and kisses her on the nose. "Don't be so stubborn. It'll be fun. How many times'll you be able to tell all of your friends you've ridden on a Vespa in Italy?"

"I don't have any friends," she says, glancing back up at him.

"Then tell me," he says. "Tell our kids."

She hesitates to grab ahold of his hand for a minute once he steps closer to the bike, but she does, nodding as she tugs at her lip with her teeth. "Okay," she agrees. "Fine."

It's not planned, really, and it's not perfect. It's not what they'd imagine or expect. Maybe it's better; maybe it's worse.

He'll use Rachel's questioning about if putting her hands in the air when they're riding is safe and legal to determine that one.

It's not the best thing they'll ever do. Not when they've talked about Greece and about Australia and every other place they'd ever want to be the past few days. They've talked about everything they'll do, all the places they'll go. He knows it's just the beginning, but it's a pretty good place to start.

...

A/N: Ah, I haven't written in quite awhile. Was it rusty? Mediocre? Actually enjoyable?


End file.
